


Fic: Horribly Happy

by cathedral_carver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedral_carver/pseuds/cathedral_carver





	Fic: Horribly Happy

**Title:** Horribly Happy  
 **Author/Artist:** cathedral carver  
 **Pairing(s)/Characters:** Snape/Hermione  
 **Rating:** T  
 **Spoilers:** EWE, Deathly Hallows disregarded  
 **Warnings:** Character death.

 **Summary:** True love never dies. Neither, apparently, does Hermione.

Written for the 2010 HP Darkfest.

A/N: Large portions of this story were written under unprecedented emotional distress. While not completely pleased with the finished product, I find the overall tone and mood pretty much reflects my state of mind at the time. Take it as you will.

 

//

 

 **They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it.**

 

In the end, it was remarkably easy to find Hermione Granger’s flat.

She had never considered her profession to be particularly dangerous. Yes, as a member of the Wizengamot she dealt with and sentenced to Azkaban any number of dangerous witches and wizards, but she was just one of many who did so. She never thought she stood out in any way and had never taken a particularly personal interest in any of the deviants that had been rightfully sentenced. She honestly felt she was Serving a Purpose. Using Her Skills. One, unfortunately, had taken a very particular interest in her. It took one Wiebe Flaxtower, convicted for Use of an Unforgiveable Curse ( _Avada Kedavra_ with a little _Crucio_ thrown in for good measure) exactly four minutes to thumb through the pages of the Muggle phone book and locate one H Granger on Sherwood Drive.

She had sentenced him to life in Azkaban during her second week on the council for the murder of his business partner. She had barely looked at him as judgment was passed. He, on the other hand, had not taken his eyes from her face for one single moment. Her image burned itself into his memory. When he closed his eyes he saw only her face. He served three, long excruciating years with only one thing on his mind to keep him sane: killing Hermione Granger. It’s what put a smile on his face at night before he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed about her. He awoke with his fingers curled in rigid semi-circles, clasped about her soft, fragile neck. He saw her face in every fellow prisoner, her mocking expression, her superior smile. He vowed if it killed him to do so, he would be the one to end her days on this earth.

One day.

 _One day_.

And then one day he escaped.

 

//

 

She was humming an aria from Turandot and was in the middle of straining the spaghetti when someone knocked on her door. Nora, her grandmotherly neighbour with her meddling ways and peering eyes.

“Hermione, dear,” she said, sticking her bluish hair into the doorway.

“Mrs. Keeler,” Hermione said.

“What are you cooking up, dear?” she sniffed. “It smells…interesting.”

“Spaghetti sauce…lots of garlic,” Hermione smiled politely refusing to open any further than was absolutely necessary.

“Expecting a guest?” Nora smiled. Hermione had to smile back. She was nosy, but sweet.

“Perhaps,” Hermione said.

“Good. I was just telling Penelope the other day that a good-looking girl like yourself should have a fellow.”

“A fellow.” Hermione bit back a smirk.

“Yes! You’re not that young anymore, dear. It’s time to think about settling down. Stop spending so much time at work! What is it that you do again?”

“Law stuff. Very stodgy.”

“Hmm. Well, this _fellow_ of yours—”

“Should be here very soon.” She paused. “Maybe I’ll introduce you one day.”

Nora clapped her hands. “That would be lovely. Now, dear, I’ll go and fetch you a bottle of Dandelion wine that the mister made last summer.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, but—”

“Not a problem, dear. You will love it.”

Hermione closed the door and hurried back to the food and didn’t hear the peculiar noises coming from other parts of the flat.

It all happened very quickly after that.

 

//

 

Flaxtower Apparated into her tiny back yard and jimmied the window, the one that was broken and she had been meaning to fix for months. He padded stealthily through quiet, shadowed rooms, following his nose to the bright, homey kitchen. Her back was to him, and she was humming, not a care in the world. And all his fantasies were there for the taking.

He hit her hard, hard enough that she saw stars. She didn’t even have time to lift her arms in self-defense. She made a sound like a grunt, and he smiled at that.

He put his hands around her neck and she knew as she looked up into his raging, insane face that she had made a mistake in thinking her job wasn’t dangerous, that magic could protect her. There wasn’t enough magic in the world to protect oneself from death.

There was pain, but thank Merlin it didn’t last nearly as long as she thought it would, and there was spinning and stars and tunnels, and there was time for one last thought, one last image of a sweet, dear face:

 _Oh, I shall miss_ you—

She heard several sharp knocks at the front door and thought, vaguely, _Oh that will be Nora with the wine_ , but by then it was all too late. It was too bad; she would have liked to have tried the wine. She imagined it would taste like summer, sweet and everlasting.

And at precisely 6:04 p.m., on a cold, still evening in November, Hermione Granger died.

 

//

 

Standing outside the roped-off flat an hour later, amid the official busyness of police and ambulance attendants, the gawkers and the whisperers, two women stood, staring in at her window, hands on their hearts, tear tracks not yet dried on their faces.

Nora: “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked in—”

Penelope: “Did they catch him?”

Nora: “I saw him…you won’t believe it—”

Penelope: “What?”

Nora: “He simply…vanished. Gone.”

Penelope: “Your eyes, playing tricks on you.”

Nora: “No, Pen. He _disappeared._ ”

Penelope: “Poor girl. All alone in the world—”

Nora: “No, not alone. She had parents.”

Penelope: “Yes, of course. I’m taking about a beau.”

Nora: “Oh, she had that, too. Seen him here several times a week. Tall man, brooding, prominent…nose—”

Penelope: “Are you sure? I thought _he_ was her father—”

Nora: “No, no. Her _lover_ , I’m sure. Why, she was making dinner for him just before I—” The woman broke down in tears at the memory, then composed herself. “At least I hope he was, the way he _looked at her_ —”

Penelope wrapped an arm around her, hugged her tight.

Nora: “Oh, life is too short! Dead and gone at such a tender age! Oh, poor, poor Hermione— ”

Her words were cut short by several sounds right behind them.

First: A bottle breaking. Glass shattering and liquid spilling.

Second: A keening, throbbing horrible sound. It began as a low thrum, a guttural, animal sound and rose and rose, filling the night, making the stars keen, too.

The man arrived just as the gurney was bumping down the steps from her doorway, the ominous body-shaped lump covered in a black tarp being loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Severus Snape, late for dinner but dressed fittingly in black from head to toe, fell to the ground behind them, clutching his head in his hands and screaming, screaming, screaming as though he’d never stop.

 

//

 

 **Though they go mad, they shall be sane.**

 

 _“Wake up, Severus,” she breathed into his ear. “You’re going to be late. Again.”_

 _Snape groaned and pulled her to him. “I’m sure Graeme can survive adequately for another hour.”_

 _“Are you sure? Last time you had a lie in he nearly burned the store down while attempting an _Incendio_ demonstration.”_

“Ah, yes, I seem to recall that.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek, light as air. “Do you think he knows?”

“Knows what?” He breathed in deeply, smelled sandalwood and ginger and sex. He felt himself stirring and moved to place his mouth on hers.

“About us, silly.”

“Absolutely not!” Snape pulled back. “No one knows. At least,” and here he paused, “at least I haven’t told anyone.”

“Hmm.”

“Have you _?” He was both horrified and excited to hear her reply._

 _“No. I haven’t.”_

 _“Ah.” He paused again. “Why not?”_

 _“Because you seem so dead set against it.”_

 _He was thinking about this as he drifted off again, still clutching tightly to her soft, warm form._

 _“Wake up. Wake_ up _!”_

He did.

Alone.

The room was dark and dank and stale. He hadn’t opened a window, or bathed, in days. He hadn’t moved or eaten. He hadn’t spoken. He’d barely breathed and he certainly hadn’t roused himself from the dark cocoon of his bed. Today, however, was different. Today everything would change.

Today there was a funeral to attend.

 

//

 

St. Aidan’s was even more grey and austere than usual on this sunless, gunmetal morning.

He stood at the doors of the church on numb legs, though he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Had he Apparated? No. He hadn’t the energy nor state of mind to employ any kind of magic. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He felt a thin trickle of sweat work its way loose from beneath his hairline and move down the back of his neck. He shivered and was covered in gooseflesh. They were all in there. Well, not _all_ of them. One was missing. He felt a very dark laugh bubbling somewhere deep inside his chest. He moved forward on legs that felt both rubbery and like blocks of petrified wood. He glanced around as he moved but nothing, not the trees, the church, the others milling about, registered in his consciousness. It was a dream. It had to be. All _this_ was a dream and Hermione was still alive.

He was aware of the stares. They were all there, all of her friends, work colleagues. Everyone was staring at him and why not? Why on earth would Severus Snape bother to attend the funeral of a former student, one he could barely tolerate and spent no small amount of time ridiculing in and out of the classroom? Why, indeed.

He sat alone in the last row and no one noticed until he started laughing halfway through the service. Everyone else was sniffing and dabbing their eyes and he burst into wild giggles that drew a lot of attention to himself. Then the whispers started.

 _Snape? What on earth is he doing here?_

 _He looks awful._

 _You mean more awful than usual._

 _He didn’t even_ like _Hermione_.

 _So, what’s he doing here?_

 _And why is he_ laughing?

Why, indeed? Perhaps because if he didn’t laugh, he would cry and cry until he either vomited or passed out, and the thought of doing either of those things in front of these people was incomprehensible.

Of course, this entire scenario was incomprehensible.

He closed his eyes when her coffin moved by him. It was a dark wood, mahogany perhaps, covered with a colourful spray of flowers. The smell of them turned his stomach. Beneath the stench he could almost catch a whiff of something else, something darker, something rotting.

He moved amongst the mourners, a tall, black figure that for once did not stand out in the vast sea of blackness. He knew people — students, former colleagues — were staring, but he met no one’s eyes. He stared at nothing. He did not know where everyone was going, but he followed. Perhaps it was a party, with tea.

Ah, the graveyard. The graveyard was worst of all. The hole was enormous, gaping, wet and black. Snape hovered near the back of the crowd, swaying slightly on his feet.

Words and more words! Words spoken that made no sense in his ears. Ashes and dust and valleys and death. Death. He felt another giggle crawling up his throat. He swallowed hard.

The first shovel of dirt hit the coffin with a heavy, wet _plop._ He swayed, his throat working. Only one person watched him now.

Harry Bloody Potter.

Snape cut his eyes away and gripped the spot where his heart lay.

Harry stared.

Snape bowed his head. Tears dripped from his nose.

Harry watched.

Snape fought back a sob or a guffaw.

Harry watched.

Ginny, eyes red and wet, bowed her head. Harry watched Snape, a sudden light of understanding in his eyes.

“Snape,” he murmured. Ginny glanced up at him.

“What is it?” Harry stood still, unmoving, his mouth falling slightly open as it all became clear. Snape’s drawn face and red-rimmed eyes. His trembling hands.

“He loved her,” Harry said.

“What did you say?”

“He…was in love with her.”

“With who?”

“Hermione.”

“Don’t be daft.”

 _Plop._ Another shovel of dirt, another small sob from the gatherers. But Snape was wavering, looking as if he was about to faint, hands now visibly shaking as he took one step towards the gaping hole, then another, and another. Bystanders were taking notice now, their eyes shifting, bodies tensing. What was the lunatic doing? But Harry knew. He moved forward at the same time as Snape but he was late, too late. Snape took another staggering step forward.

“Stop!” he howled then. “Stop it!” and he threw himself towards the pit, falling forward into the hole. Hands reached down to grab him as he writhed and sobbed atop the coffin.

“No! No! Leave me. Keep shoveling.”

It was horrible and horrifying. Ginny pressed her fingers to her mouth. Hermione’s parents clutched one another, their faces pale and drawn.

Finally he was yanked from the hole and dumped roughly on the wet, muddy grass. Snape was a sight to behold: bedraggled and wet, hair hanging in clumps about his face, breathing raggedly. He looked up wildly and blindly at the crowd around him, their horrified faces, mouths agape. He locked eyes with Harry and saw there, suddenly and terrifyingly, understanding and pity, which was the worst expression of all.

“Snape—” Harry said, no more than a whisper, moving towards him with his hand outstretched and Snape knew in that moment of clarity, he _knew_ if Harry Potter touched him in any sort of consoling manner, he would really and truly lose what was left of his mind.

He staggered to his feet, turned and ran.

How he found his way home he would never remember. It didn’t matter. He slammed the door, grabbed the bottle of Firewhisky from the mantle, fell against the wall and slid down until he couldn’t fall further. He drank and drank, gulping and choking. He drank until the bottle was empty and his mind reeling, his fingers no longer able to hold the bottle. It fell to the floor with a dull thunk. He lay his head back against the wall. He didn’t laugh.

He was freezing cold, he was blindly drunk, he was covered in black funeral dirt and Hermione was still dead.

 

//

 

 **Death wants more death, and its webs are full.**

 

 _“What would you do if I died?”_

 _“Pardon?”_

 _“What would you_ do _if I—”_

 _“I heard you, Hermione. I’m simply questioning your question.”_

 _“Why?”_

 _“I don’t quite understand what you’re asking.”_

 _“It’s a simple question, Severus. Would you pine away, would you ? would you find another…mate?”_

 _“You’re asking if I would fall in love again.”_

 _“Perhaps.” She peered at him. “I’m simply being practical.”_

 _“Practical.”_

 _“Well, yes.”_

 _“You speak of the heart and the soul and true love and soul mates and you speak of being_ practical. _”_

 _“It’s just conjecture.”_

 _“Be that as it may—”_

 _“Can we not just talk about what you would_ do _—”_

 _“No. I’m no longer interested in this particular line of discussion.”_

 _“Why?”_

 _He slammed his book down on the table with more force than was necessary. He glared at her. In the dim afternoon light she was soft and beautiful and achingly young. Sometimes he forgot just how very young she was and right now it just about shattered his heart._

 _He grabbed her then, grabbed her tightly and pulled her close to him, burying his face in her hair, his hands catching at any part of her. His heart hurt and his throat hurt to speak._

 _“I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know. I’d go mad, I suppose. Is that what you want to hear?” He was close to yelling and his voice trembled. She shook her head and tried to pull back, but he wouldn’t let go. “I’d go mad with grief and I’d yearn for death, as well.”_

 

//

 

The Draught of Living Death was probably the finest he had ever brewed. He would give himself an _Outstanding_ if he could. He set the small cup on the mantel and stood gazing at it for several long moments. It was chilly in the room. The sun was just setting. It was a perfect time to die.

He had progressed quickly through the Five Stages of Grief:

Denial: She is not dead. She is simply at work!

Anger: She is very late at work. Why hasn’t she called? How thoughtless!

Bargaining: I will be a better person. I will be nicer. If only she’d come _home_.

Depression: Maybe she has left me. Has she left me for someone else? No. She loves me. Where _is_ she?

Acceptance: Fine. She is fucking _dead_. Now what?

When he awoke during the darkest hours he imagined his arms around her. He could smell her, he was sure of it. He awoke drenched in sweat, he awoke with his face slick with tears he couldn’t recall shedding.

She was gone. She was gone and never coming back. Her lovely body, her bones and hair, were rotting in the ground. The sorrow washed over him thickly, sour and suffocating.

“Oh, Hermione!” he cried, his voice breaking, his head dropping.

The cup trembled and fell, smashing on the tile floor and spilling its contents at his feet.

He let out a howl, then bit it back. He howled again. He cleared the shelves of every book he owned. He punched holes into the walls until his knuckles were bleeding and raw.

When he was done he stood amid the wreckage, panting and sweating. His belongings were smashed and his hands were pulp and every part of his body screamed in agony and Hermione was still dead.

 _Acceptance: Fine. She was dead. Now what?_

He howled once more.

 _What? What? Now what?_

Ah.

He quickly donned his cloak and boots, pulled on a pair of gloves.

What did Muggle neighbours offer when a loved one died? He tried to think. When his father had died? Yes. But, he didn’t need bloody casseroles or consoling looks, pats on the back or offers of a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t need to _talk_ or _walk_ and he most certainly did not fucking need to _discuss his feelings_. No, he didn’t need any of those things.

What he needed was a _shovel._

 

//

 

 **There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound.**

 

 _The bells above his apothecary shop rang merrily, a little too merrily for his liking, and he looked up._

 _Hermione Granger._

 _She was as surprised to see him as he was her. “I didn’t realize this was your shop.”_

 _“Indeed it is. And the finest in Diagon Alley, I might add.”_

 _“I have no doubt,” she said, smirking. A lovely smirk, he found himself noticing. “I’m looking for mallowsweet.”_

 _“Doing some stargazing, Miss Granger?”_

 _“Yes. A little hobby of mine. There’s a large—”_

 _“—magellanic cloud formation. Tomorrow night.” He finished._

 _She cocked an eyebrow._

 _“It’s also a hobby of mine.”_

 _“Ah.”_

 _They smiled, just a little. He cleared his throat._

 _“I think I may have what you need.”_

 _She moved about, peering into bins, poking their contents from time to time._

 _“Your stores are impressive. Though, I’m not at all surprised.”_

 _“No?”_

 _“No. You were one of the most intelligent professors I ever had.”_

 _Their eyes met then and he was startled at what he saw. Hermione _Granger_? Really?_

He took a chance.

“I have the afternoon off. Perhaps you’d like to take a stroll with me?”

She did not hesitate.

They spent the entire day together, and it was, without a doubt, the most wonderful day of his life.

At the steps to her flat they paused, suddenly unsure. “I’d like…to see you again. Perhaps for dinner next time.”

“We already have a date. Tomorrow night.”

She leaned up and kissed him then, sweetly, softly on the mouth.

“It’s written in the stars,” she said.

 

//

 

Under cover of darkness he worked like a madman.

The shovel was heavy and awkward, the work slow and backbreaking. His heavy breaths filled his ears but he did not pause once. Black dirt flew in every direction; he could feel it coating his hair, slipping down his back. He tasted it on his lips. He dug until his arms and shoulders ached with the exertion, until his legs trembled, until the shovel blade hit something solid, unyielding. The he dug with his hands, sweat dripping from his face, stinging his eyes.

He was standing on her coffin. He grinned.

He smashed the coffin open, pulled it back with trembling fingers.

 _Hermione_.

Oh my darling, my darling. He pulled her to him, buried his face in her hair, breathed in the smell of her.

He gathered her up in his arms, heaved her up over the edge of the gaping hole. She was his once again. He would never let her go again. Not ever.

He barely remembered getting her home, but he did remember laughing, quietly, and weeping, too. Running through his mind were a hundred spells, a hundred incantations of the darkest magic imaginable. One of them, one of them had to work. It had to. He would _make_ it. Hermione would be his once more, he knew as he smashed through his front door and laid her reverently on the worn, green couch where they had once made love.

She would be his once more. It would be as if nothing had happened. He laughed until his throat ached.

Was Snape undeniably, irrevocably mad?

 _Yes._

And was Hermione undeniably, irrevocably dead?

 _Maybe._

 

//

 

 **Death cannot kill what never dies.**

 

 _”This couch is decidedly uncomfortable,” she said, shifting beside him._

 _“Really?” He pressed his nose into her sweet-scented hair. “I find it to be most adequate.”_

 _“It’s itching my bum.”_

 _He stopped suddenly as unbidden tears filled his eyes. She was startled. She had never seen him cry._

 _“What is it?”_

 _He could only shake his head._

 _“Severus?” She kissed his hand. “Please tell me.”_

 _“You’re the only person who has ever truly loved me. You know that, don’t you?”_

 _“Silly,” she said, smiling._

 _“Don’t leave me.”_

 _“I won’t.”_

 _“Ever.” He pulled her close, held her painfully tight._

 _She shook her head. Her hair tickled his nose. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”_

 _He closed his eyes._

 _“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let you.”_

 

//

 

Snape glanced out the window that morning, and though his expression did not change, his fingers clutched the curtains and his shoulders raised just a bit.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured. “It appears I have a little guest.”

He opened the door to find Harry Potter gazing steadily back at him. The boy looked as though he’d aged 10 years in the past week. Well, hadn’t they all.

“Snape,” Harry said and Snape thought for just a moment he saw tears in his eyes. “I know…I _know_ what you’ve done. We…everyone _knows_ Hermione’s…” He stopped and swallowed hard, his throat working. “That her _grave_ was…”

Severus simply stared, his face bland, his hands resting in his lap as if listening to Potter recite the ingredients to a particularly boring potion.

“Snape!” Harry advanced, his hands curled into tight fists, the tendons in his neck tight with his desire to make the man see, to understand. “Her body is missing.” He said these words in a hiss.

“I understand your concern over this particular… _dilemma_ , and it is a shame, I admit. But I still don’t quite understand what any of this has to do with _me_.”

Harry stopped then. He lowered his hands.

“No spell can bring back the dead,” Harry said carefully. “You know that, Snape.”

“You bore me, Potter.”

“But,” Harry went on, finally opening one fist and revealing the worn, black stone within. “This stone can…help you _see_ her again, all right? I know…more than anyone probably…how deep and powerful that desire can be.”

Snape watched him, but did not speak. His breath caught in his throat. “Where…”

“I…went back and found it. For you,” he said simply. “Because I know.”

Still Snape watched.

“You must remember…you must _be aware_ that these spirits are not memories, or ghosts, spirits of wizards who have chosen not to pass into the “beyond.” They’re not living people or solid bodies, as no spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead.”

He held it out to Snape. Snape took it.

“I hope…I hope you’ll be very happy together. After all, who am I to judge? Maybe…maybe she’ll be happier like this.”

“Again, I have no idea what you’re blathering on about. Perhaps Miss Granger’s death has affected you more than you realized.”

A very small smile touched one corner of Harry’s mouth. “Perhaps,” he said. Snape closed his fist very tightly around the stone. A tiny hint of a smile played at one corner of his mouth.

“This might be the most useful thing you’ve ever done, Potter.”

“You’re not the only one who misses her, you know,” Harry said almost too quietly to hear.

“Ah, yes,” Snape agreed. “But who among you miss her enough to bring her back?”

 

//

 

 **Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death.**

 

//

 

 _These spirits are not memories,_ he told himself. _Not ghosts or spirits who have chosen not to pass into the “beyond.” They are not living people or solid bodies, as no spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead._

He repeated these lines to himself but he could not register their true meaning. All he knew was that he held the key in his hand. A gift. All the Dark Magic in the wizarding world at his disposal and _that boy_ had appeared and simply dropped a miraculous gift into his open palm.

 _No spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead._

But, it didn’t hurt to try.

He laughed.

He stood before her immobile, rotting corpse and clutched the smooth black stone in his palm.

“Do not be frightened,” he told himself. “Do not fear. It’s only Hermione. Your love. Your one true love.”

 _No spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead._

He turned the stone three times, felt it slip against the cold sweat of his fingers. He whispered her name.

 _No spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead._

He body trembled. One hand jerked spasmodically. Her head twitched and turned to the left.

 _No spell or deep magic can totally bring back the dead._

She opened her eyes.

She moaned.

She sat up.

 

//

 

 _I wouldn’t want you to die,” she said._

 _“Pardon?”_

 _She stirred in his arms, lifted her head a bit and looked right at him.”_

 _“You said you’d want to die if I did, yes?”_

 _He shrugged. Shivered. “I don’t recall.”_

 _“Well, you did. And I wouldn’t want that. Just for the record.”_

 _“Hermione, you choose the most awkward moments for these little chats of yours.”_

 _“I can’t help it. After a particularly rousing bit of sex all sorts of interesting thoughts come into my head.”_

 _“I see.”_

 _“So you say.” She looked at him again. “And, you understand.”_

 _“Pardon?”_

 _“Neither of us…if the other one…_ dies _… ends his_ or her _own life.”_

 _“Hermione.”_

 _“I’m serious, Severus.”_

 _He tried to not roll his eyes. “Yes, Hermione. Because neither one of us is going to die for a long time anyway.”_

 _And then he kissed her, hard._

 

//

 

“Hermione.” He said. Her name filled the space of the small room. “ _Hermione_.”

She looked at him.

She started gagging violently. She leaned over and opened her mouth. Dirt and stones spilled from it, falling to the floor at her feet. Still she coughed. Snape approached her, kneeled down before her, reached out to her.

“Hermione. Look at me. Please.”

Finally she raised her head, focused her dull eyes on his face.

“I’m dead, aren’t I.” It was not a question.

“No. No! You’re not dead! You’re here. With me. This is where you belong.”

She looked slowly around her, taking in the room. She shook her head. “I’m dead. I died.”

“It was all a dream, my darling. All a wretched dream. And now you’re awake.”

“I’m not awake. I’m dead.”

“You’re not.”

She shook her head and stared at him with sunken, haunted eyes.

“What have you _done?_ ”

 

//

 

They climbed the stairs together in the dark, his footsteps light, hers plodding, scraping, as if she could barely lift her legs. He guided her to the bed, folded back the blankets, lay down on his side. Moonlight streamed through the uncurtained window, casting odd shadows across the floor. Hermione stood, unmoving.

“Come lie down with me, love,” he said.

He wrapped his arms around her. She was cold and stiff. She did not smell good. He imagined he could feel something moving beneath her skin, something that was not blood. He stroked her head. Clumps of hair gathered beneath his fingers. He smiled.

“I have missed you so much.”

 

//

 

“I am…not happy here,” she said, turning from the window. “I don’t belong here.”

“You belong with me, Hermione.”

“You don’t…understand. You don’t… _see_.” She turned and he saw the milky film of her eyes, the rotting strands of hair, her downturned mouth. “Look at me, Severus. _Look_ at what you have _done_.”

He closed his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear any more talk like that,” he snapped at last. She only looked at him, then looked away.

 

//

 

The knock came, as he knew it would, several days later.

Hermione sat, still and stiff, in the most comfortable chair by the fire. She was cold, she said. She was always so very cold. She did not look at Harry when he entered. Snape, however, was beaming, giddy.

“You can see the experiment was a grand success,” he said, sweeping one arm in Hermione’s direction. A cockroach emerged from beneath Hermione’s dress and scurried across the floor. Harry could only stare at the creature.

“Hermione,” he said.

“I’m…not Hermione,” she said, still refusing to look at him. “Hermione is dead. I’m not Hermione. Hermione is _dead_.”

Snape busied himself with the tea and small cups of Mead. Harry could not move, could not sit.

“Snape,” he said quietly. “Perhaps—”

“You take milk, correct?” Snape said.

Hermione stuck her hand into the fire and watched it burn.

Snape rushed to her side, concern etched in his features.

“That’s the third time she’s done that,” he said, tenderly wrapping the blackened appendage in a rag. He kissed the bundle and placed it gently on her lap.

“I can’t feel it,” Hermione said, finally looking at Harry. He gasped. Her eyes were milky, the colour of cream. “I can’t feel anything. I can’t feel anything at all.”

“That’s because you’re—” Harry said.

“I think you’re tired, my dear,” Snape broke in, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder and looking pointedly at Harry. “She tires so easily since her little…accident. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for such a brief visit, but perhaps we can reschedule for another time? I know Hermione would so love to see Ginny, and the children, of course.”

“I’m sure they’d love to see her, too,” Harry said automatically, thinking nothing would horrify them more.

She murmured something as she passed, and though Harry wasn’t sure he heard correctly, he could have sworn it was _Help me_.

 

//

 

Each day was the same:

Hermione did not sleep, but lay cold and stiff in his arms. They arose together and though she did not eat, Snape made her breakfast and tea and sat with her and though she did not converse, he carried on lengthy one-sided conversations about any number of subjects from newspaper articles to the weather.

“Sunny, today,” he said.

“Greengob has made a horrible mess of that situation in Kovolia, don’t you think?”

“Shall I…shall I brush your hair?”

“More tea?”

“Are you comfortable?”

And, finally, the one same question, asked over and over again:

“Are you happy, darling?”

 _Are you happy?_

Each day was the same: and each day she did not die, but she did not live.

 

//

 

“I…want to go back, Severus.”

He kissed her cold, damp cheek.

“You’re never going back, my darling.”

“I don’t belong here.”

“You do, you do.”

She shook her head. Several clumps of dirt fell from her hair onto the table.

“You did a terrible thing.”

“I did a wonderful thing! I did this for you…for us. So we could be together once more.”

“You don’t want me like this. I’m…”

“I will always love you, no matter what.”

“Are you happy?

 _Are you happy?_

“Yes, Severus,” she said dully.

 

//

 

The day he found one of her fingers on the kitchen table, was the day Harry came back. He wasted no time with pleasantries. There was no small talk. He stared at Snape, stared at the odd, flesh-coloured appendage that Snape used to stroke his cheek as he listened. Harry spoke quietly, but insistently. He gestured, he articulated, and in the end he begged. Snape thanked him for coming, then asked him to leave, but his voice was very quiet, resigned, even.

 

//

 

 **Death was a dream. It could not change these eyes,  
Blow out their light, or turn this mouth to dust.  
She combed her hair and sang. She would live forever.**

 

//

 

He called her to him.

“My dear,” he said, taking her four-fingered hand in his own. She blinked. “My beloved. You know…you know how much I love you.”

“And, I you. Except for lately. I haven’t been feeling too loving towards you lately.”

“I know. I know this. And…I realize this is my own fault. I…You must understand that this, all of this, was for you. For us, and nothing else. After your…accident…I was…not myself. I wanted nothing but to see you and hold you and be with you again.”

Hermione watched him. Something squirmed in her hair. Snape swallowed and continued. “I have…decided…to grant you your request.”

She smiled. “And you remember our agreement.”

He bit back a sob. “I do, my love.”

She clapped her hands together, losing another finger in the process. She reached up, pressed her dry, cold lips to his cheek, wet with tears.

“Oh, Severus, my Severus. Until the end of time.”

He closed his eyes.

“And then some.”

And so he let her go. He dropped the stone at his feet, and when he opened his eyes, she was gone. Just like that.

He howled and wept and this time he did not stop.

 

//

 

The figures moved, as they so often did, along the dark street, wind whipping at their clothes and hair. They giggled and covered their mouths, afraid someone might hear.

“Is that it?” they murmured, stopping and pointing. They huddled together closely for warmth, but also for safety. Many before them had travelled this street in search of this particular house, and though none (as far as they knew) had perished from doing so, there was always a first time.

“I think so.”

Giggles.

“That house? The one over there?”

“Yes, that’s the one. It’s haunted.”

More giggles.

“Sure _looks_ haunted, anyway.”

“Bollocks. Just an old story.”

“No, I’m serious. Listen. Stop bloody talking and _listen._ ”

One stopped bloody talking and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds emanating from the house in Spinner’s End. He felt a shiver run through him from head to toe. The stories were right.

Above the howl of the wind and the creak of old wood, there was something else, something else entirely:

It sounded like a man weeping, weeping in madness, weeping in grief, and it was horrible, as though he’d never be happy again.

 

//

 

 _-30-_


End file.
